


appear thou in the likeness of a sigh

by MercutioLives



Category: Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Childhood, Childhood Memories, F/M, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Personification of Death, Secrets, Sick Character, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1983684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of why Mercutio was the only one who could see La Mort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	appear thou in the likeness of a sigh

**Author's Note:**

> Watching the 2010 revival of Roméo et Juliette, I noticed that, of all the character deaths, the only person to interact with La Mort as if he could actually see her was Mercutio. He looked at her, he reached out to her. And it got me to thinking: what if he had always been able to see her? Discussing this with [Birdie](http://submercutio.tumblr.com/), some other interesting ideas fell into place.
> 
> Unlike my other fics, this one is 2010 revival canon, with John Eyzen as Mercutio and Aurélie Badol as La Mort.

She never spoke when she came to him, never uttered a single sound: she was as a cat, graceful and beautiful and oh so silent. But it mattered not, for Mercutio had words enough for them both, and she always listened, crouching beside his bed or allowing him to lay his head in her lap as she stroked his wild, curly hair. Her hands were cold, but he didn't mind; their touch soothed him through the worst of his fevers. Mercutio never questioned her visits, though she only ever came when he was alone: there was always an air of secrecy about her, something strange and otherworldly. He had a wide imagination, and so the idea that this lovely woman all in white would come to him was not so impossible. It made him feel special. Thinking on it, it occurred to him that she must be a faery – for how else could she tread across the squeaky floorboard in the center of his bedroom without causing it to groan? And how else could she appear like breath, without even coming through the door? It must be so. She was the faery queen Mab, that Nurse had once read to him about.

When he asked her if it was true, if she really was a queen of the faeries, his silent friend merely smiled and passed a hand across his fevered brow. He took it for confirmation, and felt ever so clever for puzzling out the mystery. Mercutio's dreams were full of her. He was enamoured, entranced. His secret companion had opened to him a world of possibility, and in his childish mind he thought perhaps that he would marry her someday. Surely, as a faery queen, she would not age as he became a man: she would still be young and beautiful, with her chill hands and knowing smiles. And he was a prince's nephew, so wouldn't it make a match? He was sure he would find no other woman as lovely as his dear Queen Mab.

As his health improved, Mercutio saw less and less of her. She would still come if he called for her in the dead of night, frighted by some awful dream, and soothe his trembling with a hand in his hair – but no more did she come of her own volition. He wondered if she knew his thoughts and had been angered by his presumption. He was only a frail mortal boy, after all, and why shouldn't she find a husband of her own kind? Some valiant elf-king who would live as long as she, who deserved her in all her splendor. It must be so. When he came of age, Mercutio allowed the memories of his silent friend to fade to the back of his mind. Fevers no longer plagued him and he was as healthy as any other youth of Verona. He let himself think that perhaps she was merely the product of a sickly boy's active imagination, made to comfort him through days and weeks of confinement to his bed without friend or companion. Yet now he was well, and free to make friends whom he did not need to keep secret.

Because it was uncertain if Mercutio would live beyond childhood, the prospect of betrothal had not been seriously considered. Why waste the time and effort only for him to perish before he could wed? Yet now that he was a man and very much alive, the necessity for marriage was upon him. His betrothed was named Fiammetta, and she was very pretty, though her name did not match her personality. He thought her a bit dim, for during their few conversations, she wore an air of confusion about her and didn't laugh at any of his jokes, but Uncle assured him that he would grow to like her better in time. For the first time in years, he thought fleetingly of his faery queen. What would she think of him, now that he was grown? Would she find him handsome and charming? Would she, in her silent way, laugh at his jokes? He put the thought away.

It was on the eve of the wedding that he finally saw her again. Sleepless, he paced up and down the anteroom to his chambers, when he saw her by the window. Pale as a shaft of moonlight, she seemed to gleam. He stopped, he stared. She was smaller than he remembered, almost fragile-looking, but no less captivating in her aspect. Yet there was something in her smile that settled cold in the pit of his stomach: something nearly sinister, not like the affectionate, knowing smiles she would bestow upon him as a boy. He took a step toward her, hand outstretched, but in that same moment she was gone, leaving Mercutio to wonder if he had only imagined her there. He must have done: he was exhausted, anxious. Lonely. Any other man would have spent this last night in the taverns with his friends, celebrating the last hours of freedom with drink and whores – but his uncle, knowing his proclivities and desiring to avoid scandal, had prevented him.

Mercutio greeted the dawn of his wedding day with tired eyes. His man came to help him dress, but in the midst of it was interrupted by none other than the Prince himself. His face was grave, his shoulders hunched. There had been a tragedy, he said after dismissing the servants. Fiammetta had taken a chill in the night and died, with no cause to be seen and no warning. Mercutio was unsure how to feel: saddened, surely, for she had been young – sixteen only – but also, in a selfish way, he was relieved. He had not wished to marry her, and now would not have to. It would be a matter of time before a new bride was found for him, but for now he was free again. He attended the funeral and spoke false words of mourning, dressing some weeks in black as though they had been married in truth, but it was only for show. He doffed his mourning clothes as soon as it was acceptable to do so, and returned once more to the welcoming company of his friends. He thought no more on the night before his aborted wedding, the appearance of Queen Mab into his room.

Weeks passed, and months, before he would think of her again. It was the height of summer, and the feud between Montague and Capulet had once again reached a fierce peak. Men brawled and dueled in the streets, crying insult to any small glance or word. Mercutio had no stock in it himself, being that he was neither Capulet nor Montague, but he fought on part of the latter for the sake of his closest friends. Romeo and Benvolio thought him bizarre at the best of times, something of a madman at the worst, yet they never denounced him for it. They permitted him to ramble on and on about strange thoughts as his mind hopped from subject to subject, greeting his wild laughter with laughter of their own. Yet in these blazing-hot days, where blood ran in the streets as rainwater, Mercutio felt a hollowness to his levity. There was something at their backs, hovering, waiting. Sometimes he thought he caught glimpses, only ever in the tail of his eye, flashes of white that ought not be there.

She was following him, stalking like a cat, silent as ever. Yet it was not only his steps which she haunted: she hovered about Romeo too, watching him with a terrible hunger that made his stomach churn with a hateful mix of fear and jealousy. Why should she desire Romeo, when he could not even _see_ her? If he could, Mercutio knew that he would love her: he loved any beautiful woman, and could charm them with ease. Yet this was one woman that his dear friend could not have, not his Queen Mab. He watched her in silence equal to her own, and at last she looked up at him. She smiled, knowing his heart as she always had, and he smiled in return.

The feud came to a head on a sweltering July afternoon. Mercutio was angry, he was betrayed; the heat suited his mood. Romeo was a fool, running off to marry that Capulet girl after knowing her barely a week, claiming _love_ and _fate_ and all such nonsense. A kernel of hard resentment had always existed in Mercutio for the girls Romeo courted; he knew himself to be possessive, desiring not to share that which was dear to him. Yet more than that, he saw his faery queen once more treading in Romeo's wake. Was she taunting him? Dangling herself before him, knowing that he could not reach out where others could see? It was in this state of anger and discontent that he goaded Tybalt of the Capulets into a fight. He saw her there, watching him, smiling as he flung insults. Romeo and Benvolio tried their hardest to calm him, to talk sense, but he would not have it – and neither, he was pleased to see, would Tybalt. The gleam of Tybalt's knife under the sun struck him with a moment of fear, yet he looked beyond Tybalt to see his beautiful Queen Mab smiling her hungry smile.

In that moment, he knew her for who she was. He laughed. Even as the knife-blade plunged into his stomach, as his blood poured forth from the wound, he laughed, high and mad. She was so close now, and so cold, her touch a welcome reprieve from the heat and pain that threatened to strangle him. He laughed and joked, his eyes all the while on hers. He was dying, yes, but why should he be grave about it? (The pun made him only laugh the harder.) At last, his amusement broke, flooded out with fear and grief and longing. Wrapped tightly in Romeo's arms, Mercutio watched as Death stepped forward and touched her lips to his. It was a good way to die, he thought, between the two whom he loved more than any. In his very last moment, as his spirit fled his body, he heard her. For the first time, for the last time, her voice rang in his ears. And it was beautiful.

 


End file.
